Title: sinking like a stone in the sea
Author: alakewood
Warnings: General spoilers up through 4.01, but goes AU at the beginning of that episode. Non-graphic Wincest towards the end.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 1700+
Summary: It's not unlike seeing his brother for the first time; his breath catches in his chest as he holds Sam's gaze and he's slipping – slipping into the cool blue-green depths that betray everything Sam's trying not to show him.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
A/N: Title is from Tautou by Brand New. Please review!
oxoxo
Dean's been gone for so long he thinks he might have forgotten the color of Sam's eyes.
He braces himself as he knocks on the door of room 207 at the Astoria Hotel, the racing of his heart in his chest feeling strange as if he's never experienced it before. The floorboards in the room beyond creak as someone approaches, and Dean isn't sure if that's how Sam's weight sounds on worn wooden boards or not.
But it's Sam that opens the door, looking worse for wear, his clothes wrinkled and he's got a week's worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. Their eyes meet, Sam's glassy and red-rimmed and bruised from lack of sleep. It's not unlike seeing his brother for the first time; his breath catches in his chest as he holds Sam's gaze and he's slipping – slipping into the cool blue-green depths that betray everything Sam's trying not to show him. There's a vulnerability there as disbelief gives way to hope then something else that Dean isn't quick enough to distinguish before Sam's eyes narrow and his gaze hardens.
"Sammy," Dean says weakly, still hoarse after four bottles of water. He takes a step closer, almost over the threshold.
"Stay back," Sam warns, holding up a hand as he closes his eyes, focus and effort creasing his brow. But nothing happens.
"Sam."
Sam's hand shakes as it drops to his side. There's fear in his eyes now as he whispers, "No. I buried you." He stumbles a few steps backward. "I buried you. You're dead." His whole body is shaking.
Dean just keeps his eyes on Sam's as he enters the room and closes the door behind himself. He doesn't know what to say except, "I know." And, "I was. I'm sorry." He doesn't know why he's apologizing for something he'd do a million times over so long as it meant that Sam was alive. He's not sorry for that – sacrificing himself for his brother – never will be. He's only sorry that it's his fault that Sam's become...this.
Sam's backed himself up against the table beside the bed and blindly reaches for something on its surface. Dean recognizes it as Ruby's knife as Sam swings it at him.
Dean thinks he should've expected this, at least. He tries to avoid the blow by moving towards Sam and away from the upswing, but he's slower than he used to be, muscles stiff and sore, and the blade glances the soft flesh of his side above his left hip. "That was so not necessary," he manages, but the humor is dead on his tongue. The wound isn't deep, but blood is already seeping through his filthy black t-shirt and stains his fingers when he touches it.
Sam exhales a shuddering breath as he stares at Dean's hand and the knife clatters to the floor. "Dean." Sam's voice breaks on the word and Dean can smell the alcohol on his breath as it ghosts over his face.
Sam sways on his feet; Dean's not sure if it's the alcohol or the realization he's alive that causes Sam to fall to his knees. The strangled sob that escapes his mouth is muffled by Dean's shirt as he presses his face against his brother's stomach, his hands clutching at the dirt-caked, once-gray, button-up shirt tied around Dean's waist.
Dean's hands slowly drop to Sam's head, fingers tangling in unwashed hair, holding him close as he cries.
He knows it shouldn't be awkward, shouldn't feel wrong, but it does. Yet another thing that is familiar, yet not; the memories are there but there's no emotion connected to them. He feels detached. Apart. "Sam," he says quietly, sliding a hand beneath Sam's chin, feeling the rough scrape of stubble on his palm, and tilts Sam's face up. Pushes stringy bangs out of Sam's eyes and it's as though they're kids again: Dean hurt, and Sam crying because he'd been unable to stop it even though there was nothing that he could've done. "Hey."
Sam stands on unsteady legs and he takes Dean's face in his hands without warning and just stares at him. "You."
Dean grasps Sam's wrist and the circuit is finally complete and he feels something. A pull in his chest, like he's underwater and his lungs are empty. A burning need with no hope for fulfillment.
"I tried. So hard. But I couldn't. I'm sorry."
"Don't." Fingers tightening around Sam's wrist. He sees something in Sam's eyes and looks away before it can be reflected in his own; breaks the circuit.
Sam's hands fall away, too. The electricity is released into the air, static tension. "You should...You probably want to shower. Your bag's in the trunk."
I couldn't let you go, is what Dean hears instead. But he just nods in acknowledgement and starts for the bathroom, feeling Sam's eyes on him all the while. He pauses, hand on the door, and glances back at Sam. Sam looks worried and expectant. "'m not going anywhere, Sammy."
Mouth open, he's about to say something, then decides against it. "Okay."
Dean waits for Sam to leave before he closes himself in the bathroom and begins to pull off sweat-soaked and muddy clothes. It takes longer than he'd expected, muscles feeling atrophied and protesting almost every movement. He kicks off his boots and socks first, then shucks his jeans and underwear before pulling his shirt over his head. His shoulders and triceps burn, extending the muscles beyond their limited range of motion.
He tries to relax under the steady warm spray and watches the water darken with dirt and blood as he washes. When the water finally runs clear, he steps out of the stall, wrapping himself in a dingy white towel, pressing it against the wound.
Sam's sitting on the bed when Dean exits the bathroom, Dean's duffel open beside him. "Thanks," Dean says, digging out boxer-briefs and a wrinkled t-shirt that smells vaguely of gravel dust and rock salt as he pulls it over his head. "Left you some hot water."
"That's okay," Sam starts.
"When was the last time you showered, Sam?"
He shrugs.
"When was the last time you were sober?" And that's the more important question.
Sam abruptly stands, towering over Dean. "You don't know what it was like. What I went through."
"I know, Sam. I do."
Scoffing, he shakes his head, scrubbing his hands over his face. "There's a big difference between hours and months, Dean. You have no idea."
Dean concedes to that. "Just take a shower."
The muscle in his jaw twitches and he's got the same look on his face that he was wearing when Dean ambushed him in Palo Alto. The one that says, 'I don't follow your orders.'
"Seriously, Sam. You stink."
The scowl disappears, Sam apparently unable to stay angry at his recently resurrected brother. "Can't smell much worse than you – I wasn't the one six feet under in a pine box all summer." And just like that, things are somewhat back to normal as a smile curls up the corner of Sam's mouth.
Dean returns the smile, hoping it doesn't look as fake as it feels. Even if Sam went four months without him, at least they'd known when and how it was going down. There was time to prepare for it, come to terms with it. When Sam died...There was no warning, no time.
He listens for the shower to turn on, then searches for the first-aid kit, picking up empty bottles and trash as he makes his way around the room. He finally finds it in a backpack full of dirty weapons – it seems as though Sam has been hunting solo. All the pain meds are gone as is almost everything. A few gauze pads and tape are all that remain, but that's all Dean needs. The cut's not deep enough to require stitches, so he just tapes a square of sterile gauze over the wound and calls it good. He sits on the edge of the mattress with a sigh, weariness settling into his bones like lead and anchoring him to the bed as he lies down.
Half asleep, Dean's dimly aware of the dipping of the mattress as Sam sits beside him. Startles slightly when Sam's palm presses flat against his chest over his heart and he battles against his drowsiness, the current of sleep dragging him down. Forces his eyes open to look up at his brother.
Sam's hair is damp, clinging to the side of his face, and he smells like cheap motel soap. The beginning of a beard still shadows his jaw line, but at least he's clean.
Their eyes meet again, and Dean realizes that the electricity hasn't dissipated the slightest as Sam's fingers flex and press against his sternum and Dean can feel the scrape of Sam's fingernails through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. Regardless of the fact that he's lying down, his head is swimming. Emotions rushing like blood through his veins, fusing with memories. The forgotten suddenly remembered. The look in Sam's eyes is clear as day.
And as much as Dean wants to give Sam what he wants, he's not sure if he can. "Sammy," he whispers. Don't. Stop, he thinks.
It's forbidden. Like Eve in the Garden, plucking fruit from the tree – he knows he shouldn't, that he's the one controlling what happens next, but the temptation remains. Unshakable.
It's wrong; he knows it's wrong. And it doesn't change a thing. After everything they've been through, how can he deny Sam this one thing? How can he deny himself?
Dean slides over on the mattress and Sam doesn't need any more invitation than that to climb into the bed beside him. Once the decision is made, it's as inescapable as gravity. He lets Sam take what he wants.
Sam's hand is still on Dean's chest, the pounding of his brother's heart irrefutable proof that he's alive; and he buries his face in Dean's neck, breathing him in. A chaste kiss pressed to the hollow of Dean's throat, the underside of his jaw, the corner of his mouth – each graze of Sam's lips a question asking, 'Please?'
Dean tilts his head just so, slides his hands up Sam's back and holds him tightly. "I'll never leave you again." He swears it.
Sam's mouth covers his, sealing the promise. And they tumble into the abyss together.